


Glory and Gore

by akat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Vikings (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:12:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3247535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akat/pseuds/akat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was foolish to curse the gods --  or to pique their interest. Yet the girl before Rollo did not seem to know how to do anything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Solveig

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BtVS or Vikings. Shocking, I know. Also, the line referring to stepping out from Ragnar’s shadow is from Vikings.  
> Spoilers: Season 5 BtVS and Season 2 Ep 3 Vikings.  
> Timeline: During “Triangle” in BtVS Season 5 during Buffy’s fight with Olaf and Season 2 Ep 3 of Vikings.

+++

Rollo looked where the gently rolling sea met the cloud covered skies, envisioning the treasures that lay beyond its horizon. He felt the northeasterly wind, feeling their promise of swift passage. He listened to the waves as they lapped against the sandy shore, hearing how they mocked him with their steady rhythm of retreat -- for each ebb and flow of the tide carried Ragnar’s fleet further away while _he_ remained on the shore, forbidden from taking part in the raids on Northumbria.

How he envied his brother, his glory, his power. Ragnar had seen his opportunity and he had seized it, driven by his belief that he had been destined for greatness.

That was why, when Rollo had seen his own chance, he had taken it, for his ambition was no less. When he had finally stepped out of his brother’s shadow, however, he had felt no sunshine on his face. And now he found himself in constant darkness.

Rollo clenched his fists, inwardly railing against his brother’s fortune and his own misfortune, only just stopping short of cursing the gods themselves, of the All Father who so clearly favored his brother. It was there, though, in the back of his mind and in his heart.

Perhaps they knew it still. Or perhaps Floki had been correct, that the gods were angry at him, for a thunderous crack rent the air not a moment later, as if Thor himself had lit upon the beach.

Rollo simply squared his shoulders, drew his _knifr_ , and turned toward the sound. Though he had no desire to leave this world just yet, he would face whatever was to come next, whatever he had brought upon himself. His only regret was that he had rashly tossed his axe into the sea as Ragnar’s ships departed.

To his surprise, his reckoning came in the form of a girl and a huge hulking brute, both of whom stood fifty paces inland, where the sand met the hard-packed earth. Even more surprising, they paid him no heed. After taking a brief moment to gather their wits, seemingly confused by whatever had brought them there, they soon engaged in battle with each other.

Though the girl kept a wary eye on him, Rollo quickly realized that they were not there for him.

He supposed he could have crept away, slunk back to Kattegat without notice. But it was not his way. It mattered not who they were or whence they had come. He was hungry for blood, and he had nothing to lose.

He was not so foolish as to take them both on, however; he quickly decided to cast his lot with the girl. It was not because she needed any aid. Though she was a small thing, she moved as one who had been well tested on the field of battle, dodging her opponent’s hammer with ease and countering with powerful strikes of her own. Nor was it because she was attractive, for there was no shortage of pretty girls and she was a bit scrawny.

He chose based on the manner of dress. Although it was strange, the quality of the material was plain -- as were the trinkets around her neck.

Her opponent, on the other hand, was clothed in the same rough cut as Rollo, his hair a dirty mass of red tangles. Neither disguised his monstrous face. Large horns protruded from his forehead, which was as green as the leaves in summer. He was large, too, both taller and wider than Rollo, an impressive size despite the fact that his body had gone soft. Mostly importantly, however, he had not yet noticed Rollo, intent on the girl and nothing else as he raged.

With a little luck, Rollo would be able to circle behind him before he realized what was happening.

Moving swiftly, Rollo undid the clasp to his cloak and let it fall to the sand. Then, with his small but sharp _knifr_ still in hand, he advanced, earning him a questioning look from the girl as he did. Rollo simply pointed his blade at his target and grinned.

Though she was clearly mistrustful of him, she did not make known his presence.

Within moments, Rollo was within striking distance. It was then, however, that the foul creature finally noticed him, having been spun around by one of the girl’s blows. Strangely, his beady eyes lit with recognition, a smile stretching his grotesque face.

“Rollo! Good to see you, my friend!” he bellowed. “It is I, Olaf! Come. Aid me, my friend, so we can rid ourselves of this harpy.”

The girl momentarily forgotten, Rollo stared at the one who called himself Olaf. He did bear a resemblance to the man. But Olaf had disappeared years ago, along with his woman.

He slowly walked toward Olaf and the girl. In a show of trust, Olaf stepped to the left, his back vulnerable to Rollo as he moved to the side, most likely thinking that together they could flank the girl and overpower her.

It was a sound strategy. They all knew it to be so. Rollo could see it in the girl’s eyes with every step he took, the uncertainty and wariness. He could see it in the way Olaf raised his war hammer, eager for the kill.

Little did they know, Rollo wanted no part of it.

What did it matter if this monster was someone he had once known? He had never cared much for the man in the first place. The knowledge that Olaf was not one of the _jötunn_ but a man cursed by a great evil only reinforced Rollo’s decision to support the girl.

He quickly took the final few steps, diverting his path at the last so that he was standing next to Olaf.

He saw the surprise in his old comrade’s eyes as he struck.

Olaf howled with rage as Rollo’s _knifr_ bit deeply into his shoulder, forcing him to drop his hammer as Rollo twisted the blade. For a creature his size, he was quick, however, and he used his uninjured arm to throw Rollo off of him before he could strike again.

Rollo flew backwards at least a dozen paces. When he finally hit the ground, his breath rushed out like a gust of wind. Still, he was on his feet in an instant, wielding his now bloody knife as if he held a sword of Ulfberht as Olaf rushed toward him.

Before the monster could reach Rollo, however, the girl stepped into his path. After ducking Olaf’s initial attack, she countered with one of her own, sending a flurry of kicks -- the likes of which Rollo had never seen before -- directly at Olaf’s gut.

The power of her assault forced her opponent to retreat -- away from his hammer.

Rollo grinned as he raced to rejoin the fray. As he passed by the hammer, he reached down and grabbed the handle, thinking that two weapons were better than one. Because of its size, he made sure he put a fair amount of strength into lifting it.

He did not anticipate that he would be unable to lift it at all. Yet it stuck fast to the ground. Worse, it brought his momentum to an abrupt halt, going so far as to make him lose his footing as he was jerked backwards unexpectedly.

Before he could make sense of it, or regain his footing, he heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh. A moment later, the girl was soaring toward him. It was all Rollo could do to put his arms up to both cushion her fall and absorb some of the impact.

They both tumbled toward the ground. Though the girl weighed practically nothing, the power behind Olaf’s blow made the impact sting nonetheless; for him, at least. The girl was on her feet an instant later as if she had never fallen. The only sign that she had been affected at all was her hair, which had come loose from its bindings and now cascaded over her shoulders in golden waves.

Instead of rushing toward Olaf once again, as he thought she would, she glanced down at him, and the hammer at her feet, and spoke.

Rollo could not understand a word of it.

Her words were strange, spoken in a different tongue, one harsh and flat to the ear -- and they were quickly forgotten as she lifted the hammer as if it weighed no more than a newly born child and engaged Olaf in battle once more.

If it could be called that, Rollo mused. For unarmed, she had been deadly, but with the hammer...

Rollo almost pitied Olaf, who after a few swift blows, was bloodied and bruised. A few more swings, and the giant was on his back, moaning in pain.

The girl quickly raised the hammer once more. Instead of dealing the final death blow, however, she placed it on Olaf’s chest, pinning him to the ground.

Then she began to speak again in that strange language of hers.

Her words were directed only toward Olaf, Rollo himself apparently dismissed. By her inflection, it was clear that she was asking questions. When Olaf refused to answer, she simply put one foot on his shoulder, directly over the wound Rollo had inflicted, and pressed down.

The answers came easily after that -- surprisingly in the girl’s own tongue. Rollo watched in frustration as she and Olaf spoke to one another while he stood there, understanding none of it. The most he could tell was that Olaf’s answers were not to the girl’s liking; as he spoke, the girl grew pale, almost as white as the winter snow. When she finally acknowledged Rollo’s presence and glanced his way, it was with a frown on her face.

Rollo narrowed his eyes, displeased with this turn.

Olaf, however, was delighted. Seeing his captor momentarily distracted, he sprang to action with a bellowing laugh, knocking the girl off her feet and pinning her to the ground. A moment later, his hands were around her neck.

Whether she could have escaped herself, Rollo did not know. He did not plan to find out. Gripping his _knifr_ tightly in one hand, he rushed toward Olaf and jumped onto the ogre’s back. Without hesitation, he thrust his knife into the base of Olaf’s skull in one smooth stroke.

Though Olaf may have looked like one of the _jötunn_ in appearance, he died the same as any man.

Rollo curled his lip in triumph. As he pushed Olaf’s lifeless body to the side so it would not crush the girl, he looked down at her, expecting her to be pleased as well.

He was taken aback by the fury in her eyes. It seemed she had not wanted Olaf dead.

Rollo frowned. Surely a warrior such as she could understand that, although Olaf could provide her with answers, they could not be trusted; that it was far too dangerous to let him live, as he would not hesitate to kill them both if given the chance.

Yet angry she was. Though she did not attack him, she got to her feet and brushed past without sparing him a single look, the hammer gripped tightly in her hand. She carried her anger with her down to water’s edge, where she began shouting at the sky and turning round in circles as if she were searching for someone.

Who was this girl? Rollo wondered.

She was no ordinary shieldmaiden, that he knew. He only had to remember the way in which she had appeared, the way she wielded that hammer. If it were not for the anguish etched clearly on her face, the angry, defiant tilt of her chin, the panic in her eyes when no one answered her pleas, he would have thought her a god.

Perhaps she was cursed, not as plainly as Olaf had been, but cursed nonetheless. Or perhaps she was something in between, for often there was little distinction between a blessing and a curse.

As Rollo watched her, her golden hair blew in the ocean breeze like a crown of victory, the drops of her enemy’s blood adorning her skin like spoils from war, he found that he did not care. Sometimes, one man’s blessing was another man’s curse.

Glory followed this one, that much was plain. Glory and bloodshed, at a time when he had thought both were beyond his grasp.

He did not take that lightly. He would not discard what Fate had granted him.

That did not mean forsaking caution altogether, for he did not take _her_ lightly, either. He had seen the way she had fought, the way her temper could flare. Even now, she was pacing back and forth on the beach, much like a caged wolf.

No, he would have to choose his moment carefully, even if it meant letting her be when every fibre of his being wanted differently.

Sorely needing a distraction, Rollo decided to busy himself with hiding Olaf’s body.

It was no easy feat. The land was sparse there and he had no tools with which to work. Eventually, he settled for dragging the body into a slight depression in the earth and covering it with bracken. It was not perfect, but it would hold for a bit.

As he worked, the girl continued to stalk up and down the beach, occasionally throwing glances in his direction. Finally, long after Rollo had finished his task and had settled down onto to the ground, she stopped.

Rollo still did not move, however, waiting until she dropped down into the sand before he dared approach. Even then, it was with caution, for though she never once looked in his direction, he had no doubt she was watching his every move.

Finally, after what seemed like an unnaturally long time, he was standing in front of her, his back to the waves. Still, she averted her gaze.

Rollo was undeterred.

“You cannot stay here,” he said.

He knew she did not understand. He said it more to get her attention -- and it worked. She looked up at his words, a confused frown marring her features.

Encouraged, Rollo attempted to convey his meaning through a series of fumbling hand gestures.

At first, he feared she did not understand. Then she looked up and her gaze met his, a defiant fire burning deep in her eyes, before she turned away.

It was in stark contrast with the way she was shivering from the cold, the thin material of her clothing no match for the sea breeze. As the wind began to pick up in earnest, her trembling only worsened until her entire body was shaking. Still, she made no move to leave.

Rollo scowled. By the gods, she was a stubborn one. And easily chilled. She was likely to die of exposure before she would move from this spot.

Turning on his heel, he stalked up the beach and retrieved his cloak from where he had originally left it. Then he strode back to the girl and thrust it upon her shoulders.

For a moment, she looked mutinous, as if she would hurl it and then _him_ into the sea. She quickly changed her mind, however, as the warmth of the material settled around her, encouraging her to draw the cloak even closer around her.

After a moment, gave him a nod of thanks.

Rollo felt his own ire ease almost immediately. He hunkered down onto the sand himself a reasonable distance from her and leaned back on his elbows, content to wait a bit longer.

They sat in companionable silence until the girl made a sound of frustration and pushed herself off the ground.

Rollo waited, curious to see what she would do.

He did not have to wait long. As soon as she was on her feet, she strode over to him, the bottom of his cloak trailing behind her. She did not stop until there was only a pace or two between them. Then, with a look of determination in her eyes, she held out her hand to him.

Rollo raised his eyebrows in surprise -- and in faint amusement.

This did not please her. She pursed her lips together in annoyance and began to pull her hand back. Before she could, however, Rollo grabbed it and held it within his own with a murmur of apology.

Though this seemed to appease her, she still pulled him to his feet with more force than was strictly necessary, certainly more than any woman of her size should have possessed.

Perhaps she did it to remind him of what she could do, or perhaps test him to see what _he_ would do.

It only made Rollo grin. To his surprise, this earned him a slight upturn of her mouth in response -- one that faded an instant later when a wave crashed unexpectedly at their feet.

The girl jumped backward at the shock of cold water on her feet, making sure she kept a firm grip on his cloak as she did to ward off the still biting wind.

Rollo, however, felt neither wind nor water. In that moment, he only felt sunshine on his face.

 

+++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As I was watching Vikings, I couldn’t help but think that it’s one ‘verse Buffy would not fit in very well. There’s absolutely nothing there that would help soften the blow of being sent to the Middle Ages -- no powerful elves, chivalrous warriors, supernatural enemies, nothing. Nothing except honest to goodness pillaging and plundering Vikings, whom she would it VERY difficult to relate to. So of course I had to try to write a ficlet that put her there -- with one of the Vikings she would find the least sympathetic. Whether or not it works… well, you tell me. :)


	2. Skǫll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I wasn’t planning on coming back to this yet, but the season premiere inspired me. :)

+++

Siggy cursed the day she first laid eyes upon Rollo. He had brought upon her nothing but sorrow and heartache. And now he had brought her a girl to care for.

A girl, she scoffed to herself.

The wretched creature in front of her was no more a girl than Siggy herself, well into her childbearing years. One only had to look at her to see that. Though a bit thin, she had the gentle curves of a woman, which her strange garments made no effort to hide. And though her appearance was youthful, with smooth skin and hair that shone like burnished gold, it was more likely a testament to her station in life; for Siggy also saw the delicately wrought jewelry that adorned the girl’s neck.

Then there was the hammer she carried, which now rested against the wall within arm’s reach. No child could wield such a weapon; Siggy only had to remember Rollo’s look of bewildered awe at it to know it to be true. 

Siggy was not ashamed to admit it. She both envied and feared the girl. She may have even hated her, if not for the utter despair in the girl’s eyes. 

Oh, she disguised it well. Siggy might not have seen it at all, if she had not witnessed a similar look from Rollo when he had returned from Götaland, imprisoned after his betrayal of Ragnar. See it she did, though, and she could not help but be moved by it. It was that pity that had her acquiesce to Rollo’s pleas to take in the waif when she should have turned them both away. 

Siggy sighed. There was nothing to be done about it now. Indeed, she had thrown her lot in with Rollo long ago. This was merely another drop of water in the ocean. Rollo had entrusted the foundling to her, making her promise to keep her safe, and she would not betray him. 

The gods only knew how the rest of Kattegat would receive her, though, one clearly not from these lands who did not speak their language. Athelstan had certainly not fared well. It was only Ragnar’s friendship that spared the priest from being cast out -- or worse. Even now, there were those who distrusted his Christian ways. Princess Aslaug herself was not warmly welcomed in the beginning, the bonds of the villagers to Lagertha, Ragnar’s first wife, too strong, despite Aslaug’s lineage and her position as Ragnar’s wife and mother of his children. 

At that moment, as if she had heard Siggy’s thoughts, Aslaug rapped on the outer door and stepped inside. 

It was not so surprising. It was rumored that the princess had uncanny abilities. 

“Siggy, I--” Aslaug began. She stopped when she spied the girl. “I did not know you had a visitor. Greetings, and welcome. I am Princess Aslaug, wife of Ragnar, Earl of Kattegat.” 

She looked at the girl expectantly, waiting for her to recognize her as was befitting, but girl said nothing; she simply stared back at the princess. 

Siggy squared her shoulders. She had hoped for some more time to prepare for such a meeting. For if Aslaug did not accept the stranger, all was lost. 

“Forgive her, Princess. She was found lost and wandering on the beach. I fear she does not speak in our tongue.” 

Aslaug studied the stranger; not with hostility but with genuine curiosity. What she saw, Siggy did not know; only that, after a moment, the princess gave a gasp of surprise. 

“She is different,” she said. At Siggy’s look of distress, Aslaug smiled. “You mistake my meaning. What is her name?”

Siggy grit her teeth at this, distracted from the task of puzzling out the princess’ words. She knew full well what Rollo had called her. 

Solveig. Daughter of the sun. 

Siggy refused to utter it.

Aslaug was not deterred. Moving closer to the girl, she pointed to herself. “Aslaug,” she said. 

Then she gestured to Siggy and said her name, before moving back to herself and saying her own name once more. 

The girl understood. Holding her head up, she spoke.

Her name was unlike anything Siggy had ever heard before. Though she had no hopes of pronouncing it correctly, she did the best she could. 

“Bótví.”

The girl frowned at her and repeated her name once again.

Siggy held firm, however. ‘Bótví’ was near enough to what was said. Her real name was much too foreign. It would only bring more attention to her strangeness. Bótví, on the other hand, was a fine Viking name. 

And it was not Solveig.

+++

Bótví was a sullen thing. Useless as well, without the slightest skill even in the simplest of tasks, ones a mere child could perform. How she had survived thus far without knowing how to properly stoke a fire, Siggy did not know. And though she showed a willingness to try, Siggy shooed her away from most tasks.

It was not because Siggy wanted to coddle the girl as Aslaug did, or because Bótví lacked the wits to learn. The girl simply did not have the practice required; often, it was easier for Siggy to do something herself than to wait and undo the mess.

With nothing else to do, Bótví spent much of her time walking down the beach or sitting on one of the rocks overlooking the fjord with the most pitiful look on her face. 

Siggy assumed Bótví would be alone during this time. Though none of the other villagers gave her much trouble, in no small part to Aslaug’s obvious favor, they still kept their space. Therefore, it was quite a shock when Siggy learned that she did not always lack for company. 

It was two days after Bótví had first appeared. Siggy had gone down to the beach to fetch her when she heard a terrible clash of swords. 

Fear gripping her heart, Siggy raced to the waterfront. Before she could burst forth from the treeline onto the beach, however, she saw something that stopped her -- Rollo was there with Bótví, and the two were engaged in heated combat. 

Though part of her was angered to know the two of them were there together, she was soon distracted by the fight; for when she had first spied them, it almost appeared as though Bótví was winning, as if she were merely… humoring Rollo. Then Siggy blinked, and suddenly the tide of battle had turned. Now it was Bótví who was defending herself; admirably at that, but it was obvious that she was overmatched. After exchanging a few more blows, Rollo handily disarmed Bótví. 

As the sword fell softly onto the sand, Siggy convinced herself that she had only imagined Bótví had the upper hand moments before. She did not understand, however, why Rollo seemed angry at his victory, his breath coming fast as he glowered at her. 

Though many a men had crumbled under such a look, Bótví was not bothered in the least. When Rollo spoke, his voice low and ominous like the rumbling crash of thunder, she simply replied with an odd gesture of her finger. It was one Siggy had not seen before, and she was certain Rollo was as unfamiliar with it as she, but its intent was clear. To add further insult, she then waved to Siggy, ignoring Rollo entirely. 

Instead infuriating him, as Siggy thought it would, he chuckled with laughter. With a few more words, spoken too low for anyone but Bótví to hear, he gave a small bow, collected the swords, and departed, heading for the path where Siggy stood. 

He had a look of such delight on his face that it made Siggy roil with jealousy. Her mood did not improve when he brushed by her a moment later with nothing but a nod of greeting before he vanished up the path. 

When she looked back at Bótví, however, her resentment vanished. The girl had such a look of calmness about her, a sense of peace, as if the heat of battle had chased away her burdens, however fleetingly.

Siggy did not have the heart to take that from her.

+++

Siggy was well aware that Bótví and Rollo met frequently to spar with one another after that first time.

Initially, she feared what it would lead to. Bótví’s fighting ability would be attractive to a man such as Rollo. She only had to think of Lagertha to know that. And it was an area in which Siggy was helpless to compete. 

Time in her new environment had not diminished Bótví’s looks, either. Though she had tentatively picked at the food put before her for the first few days, she now ate with vigor. With her increase in appetite, she was beginning to fill out into a more comely shape. And while she was no longer dressed in her odd but finely made clothing, she was still quite striking in the sensible woolen dresses Siggy had procured for her. 

After observing them quite closely for more than a handful of days, however, Siggy finally realized she had nothing to fear. Bótví showed no interest in Rollo in that regard. There were no coy looks sent his way, no accidental meeting of hands. Never once did she seek Rollo, either, choosing to sit with Siggy and Aslaug over all others. 

Rollo, too, did nothing to suggest that he desired her. On the contrary, he gave her a wide berth, except for those times on the beach. He also began to visit Siggy in her bedchamber. 

Humming to herself, Siggy fastened her small belt pouch around her waist and pulled her cloak around her shoulders. There was a chill in the air today, and Aslaug wished her and Bótví to pay a visit. 

“Come, let us go to Aslaug. She wishes to see you.”

Bótví eagerly nodded and stood.

Siggy smiled. She knew it would be no burden to Bótví. Her ability to speak in their tongue was improving daily, particularly when she spent time with Aslaug’s boys; for as young ones learning themselves, they spoke in simpler phrases, using the most basic and important words. 

As soon as Bótví was ready, they stepped out into the sunlight. Before they could reach Aslaug, however, there was a commotion in the center of the village. 

“There are ships in the fjord, bearing the flag of Jarl Borg!”

Siggy felt the blood drain from her face. 

Rollo. She had to find Rollo. 

With no time to spare, she raced toward Ragnar’s old farm, where Rollo was currently staying. She heard Bótví following behind her, chasing after her, but she ignored the girl. She did not have time to try and explain.

When she finally reached the farmhouse, she did not stand on ceremony and instead burst through the front door. She found Rollo next to the hearth, fast asleep, and rushed to his side.

“Rollo!” she exclaimed as she gave him a violent shake. 

Rollo was awake within moments. “Siggy? What is the matter, woman?”

“You have to come. Jarl Borg’s ships approach!”

With a curse, Rollo leapt to his feet and hurried out the door before Siggy could so much as stand. Determined to follow after him as best she could, she made to leave. In her haste, however, her step faltered and she tripped.

There was a giant _crack!_ as her foot came into sharp contact with a floor plank, which split in two with the momentum of her fall. 

Bótví was at her side in an instant, pulling the broken plank away from Siggy as she helped her to her feet. 

With no time to worry about repairs, Siggy started to leave once again. She stopped, however, at Bótví’s gasp.

It appeared that the plank was not merely loose. There was a space underneath it, one used to hide things -- or more specifically, for Athelstan to hide things. 

Siggy watched in horror as Bótví pulled a necklace chain from the floor. She recognized it immediately. It was the one Athelstan had worn when he had first been captured by Ragnar. It was a symbol of his faith and of his god. And Bótví was looking at it with complete recognition if not reverence. 

Siggy could only hope that it meant Bótví was not a Christian. It would be disastrous otherwise. Now was not the time to dwell on it, though. 

She grabbed the necklace and thrust it into her pouch. Then she looked up at Bótví, who looked like she was about to object. 

“Not now,” Siggy hissed. “We must go.”

Though she hesitated for the briefest moment, Bótví soon acquiesced. A moment later, they both were rushing toward the beach. 

Rollo was already there and with him, many other villagers. Their eyes were fixed on the horizon, toward the ships that were fast approaching. 

“We are under attack.”

Rollo’s words sent Siggy’s heart racing wildly. They were utterly defenseless. Aside from Rollo, their best fighting men were across the sea on a raid in Northumbria. By the number of ships, Jarl Borg’s force was a hundred men strong. 

There was little time to worry about it, however. The beach erupted in activity as Rollo began barking out orders to everyone, orders no one dared disobey. He stopped when he caught sight of Bótví, however. 

In three large strides, he was standing before her, less than an arm’s length away. He pointed to the ships, then back to the people on the beach, who were already assembling their arms, and finally to her. 

“Will you fight?”

Though the details of the situation was beyond her, it seemed she understood the urgency, the terror of the people around her. Still, Bótví hesitated. 

Though they did not have a moment to waste, Rollo pressed her once again. “We need you. I need you.” 

In that moment, Siggy felt her heart drop, for she spied something in Rollo’s eye she had not seen before. If Bótví saw it, it did not affect her, for she still said nothing, unmoved by his plea.

Frustrated, Rollo turned to leave, his mind already preparing for the battle before him. Before he could take a step, however, Bótví reached out and touched his wrist. 

“I fight.”

Though her voice was quiet, her tongue stumbling over the words, she did not waver. 

Rollo’s face lit with a fierce joy, his eyes bloodthirsty as he looked at Jarl Borg’s fast approaching ships. 

Bótví’s eyes were fastened on Siggy, however, offering her a small, reassuring smile, one that spoke to their blossoming friendship, to the tentative trust they had only begun to build. 

It cut Siggy to the bone.

+++

Please review, if you are so inclined! :) 


	3. Nornir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It’s occurred to me now, three chapters in, that I neglected to provide translations for the chapter titles. *facepalm* So here goes...
> 
> _Solveig_ \-- Daughter of the Sun  
>  _Sköll_ \-- “Treachery”; in Norse mythology, _Sköll_ is a wolf who chases the Sun, trying to eat her; _Sköll’s_ brother, _Hati_ (“Hate”), chases the moon. They will both finally get their quarry at Ragnarok. In the show _Vikings_ , Rollo has a tattoo of them. (And yes, there will be a chapter in this fic called _Hati_ , for those who’d like to ponder who’s hating who.)  
>  _Nornir_ \-- the Norse version of the Fates; _Urðr_ , that which is; _Verðandi_ is that which is becoming; and _Skuld_ , that which should be.

+++

_Urðr_

Buffy gazed out over the ocean. 

It was one of the few things that hadn’t changed with her leap back in time. In fact, if she stared at the waves long enough, she could almost believe she was sightseeing on the Pacific Northwest instead of stuck here in Viking hell. Wishful thinking wasn’t going to help her, though, so she resisted the urge. 

The wallowing and self-pity were a little harder to ignore. 

She didn’t think that was entirely unreasonable, all things considered. She was adrift, lost in the time of Eric the Red without the slightest clue how to return home. Though she still held out hope that Willow and the others would find her, it was definitely fading with each passing day. Now when she came here to the beach, to the very spot she had first appeared, it wasn’t to look for a sign or a portal or _anything_ that would show her that her friends were close to a solution. It was because she didn’t know what else to do. 

Buffy clenched her hands into fists. Thankfully, a noise behind her caught her attention before she could fall too far into an emotional black hole.

It was Rollo, striding toward her with a smile on his face and a sword in each hand.

Buffy stiffened, thinking that he must have changed his mind about her, now that he’d had some time to think about her magical appearance and her less than normal battle with Olaf the Troll. Of course, if that were the case, she would’ve thought he’d have told the others and they’d attack her en masse. He probably wouldn’t look so sheepish, either, coming to an abrupt halt when he noticed her reaction to him.

“Will you fight?” 

He kept his words simple, but Buffy didn’t understand a word he was saying; she did, however, recognize the way he raised his arms in the universal ‘I mean you no harm’ gesture as he spoke. She still wasn’t totally convinced his intentions were pure, but she left herself relax ever so slightly. 

Encouraged, Rollo flipped one of the swords so the hilt was pointed toward her, miming out his intention to give it to her. When she nodded, he tossed it to her; gently enough so that it plopped harmlessly in the sand a few feet in front of her. Then he spoke again, raising his own sword as he did in askance. 

He wanted to spar, she realized. 

Buffy bit her lip. She knew she should have refused. Even if he wasn’t bothered by her unnatural self, it wasn’t the smartest thing to keep reminding him of it. There was also a risk of exposing her secret to everyone else. In a time that was full on medieval and deeply suspicious, she was liable to get herself burned at the stake.

And yet she couldn’t bring herself to refuse. Between the anxiety of being trapped there and the lack of slayage, she was ready to burst. She needed an outlet and Rollo looked like he wouldn’t disappoint. Even more than that, though, she did it because, like the water, sparring was one of the few things that reminded her of home.

With a grin -- her first real smile since she had been dumped in this place -- she scooped up the sword and prepared to fight.

+++

_Verðandi_

Buffy sat on the beach, letting the gentle, rhythmic sound of the waves lapping at shore soothe away her frayed nerves.

The Viking way of life was difficult and so different from what she knew. It was frustrating beyond belief. She could hardly complain, though, because she knew it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been. In fact, between the subsistence living and pro-slavery social structure, she knew she actually had it pretty easy. Not only did she have Rollo looking out for her, but she had Siggy, too, the woman actually taking her into her home. 

That wasn’t to say it was all smooth sailing. Buffy got the distinct impression that Siggy wanted to throw her off a cliff some days. But she didn’t, and she didn’t turn Buffy out, either, even when it became painfully obvious that she was dead weight. Even Siggy’s annoyance with her, though endless, was beginning to have some big sister undertones to it.

Then there was Aslaug. For reasons beyond Buffy, the woman had taken a shine to her. It actually made her a little uneasy, unsure what she wanted from her, why she always looked at Buffy with a small, knowing smile. Just like she did with Rollo’s silence, however, Buffy didn’t question it. Having the leader’s wife in her corner was nothing to sneeze at, and most of the others kept their distance because of it.

The only problem was that friendship alone wasn’t going to help her much, not if she needed to find her own ticket home. Neither was staying in Kattegat. 

There was nothing supernatural about the place. No vampires, no Hellmouths, nothing. They were all just people trying to scrounge a living out of what looked like pretty meager resources. The only exception was Anyanka, but even her magic was tied to D’Hoffryn and not Kattegat. Summoning her was out of the question anyway. The vengeance demon from this time wouldn’t lift a finger for her, at least not a finger Buffy trusted. She wouldn’t put it past Anyanka to alter the future beyond all recognition once she learned the truth, just out of spite. 

No, if she wanted help, she would have to go somewhere else. 

The most logical choice would be to find either the Slayer and Watcher of this time or a friendly coven, but that was a lot easier said than done; it would be like trying to find a needle a very transportation poor haystack. The fact that she didn’t know the first thing about surviving in a world without modern conveniences and high standards of personal hygiene made it next to impossible. Yet as the days continued to tick by without a single sign from her friends, it seemed more and more like a real possibility. 

Buffy began to pace back and forth on the beach as she tried to think the logistics through, of what striking out on her own would truly mean, what she would need. With each step, she felt her agitation rise until she actually felt worse than when she had first arrived. She practically tore the sword away from Rollo when he came down for their daily sparring session a little while later, before he could even ask if she wanted to fight as was their custom. 

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. He simply attacked as he always did; eyes gleaming, teeth bared, and holding absolutely nothing back, obviously still thrilled to have a partner who could more than hold her own against him. 

That was fine by her. As their swords clashed, Buffy let go of her worries. But it was only a temporary fix. 

Leaving Kattegat may not have been a good idea, but it was the best one she had.

+++

_Skuld_

After her revelation on the beach, Buffy tried to absorb as much as she could about living in this world, but progress was painstakingly slow. More often than not, she went to sleep feeling completely demoralized. The only bright spots to her days were sparring with Rollo on the beach and, surprisingly, spending time with Aslaug’s kids, Ubbe and Hvitserk. 

At first, the boys were just a way to learn the language at an I Can Read level. Because they were so young, however, they were still completely innocent and accepted her without reservations and without any underlying motivations; they were just thrilled to have an adult who had time to play with them, especially now that their mother had a new baby to take care of. Before Buffy knew it, the sweet, rambunctious little boys had wormed their way into her heart. 

Buffy grinned at just the thought of the little rugrats. Her smile grew wider when she noticed Siggy’s questioning and slightly disapproving look as they walked through the center of the village toward Aslaug’s. Buffy couldn’t help it, nor did she want to, having finally warmed up to the role of the little sister. Before she could think of how to take it further, however, all hell broke loose as people began running around the center of the village in a panic, yelling the word ‘Borg’ over and over again. 

Buffy frowned. The only Borg she knew were in the final frontier. From everyone’s reaction around her, though, it seemed as though this one was just as bad. 

Concerned, Buffy turned to Siggy, hoping to get an explanation, but Siggy was already gone, running as fast as she could on a path that led away from the village center. 

Buffy immediately set off after her. Unfortunately, catching up wasn’t as easy as it should’ve been. Not only did Siggy’s sheer terror give her a boost of speed, but she also knew the way. Although Buffy was sure she was heading to Rollo’s house, she herself didn’t know where that was, only the general direction. By the time she reached something resembling a house, Rollo was already storming out of it, his hair flying and his eyes blazing, so intent on his focus that he didn’t see her when he passed her by. 

Now really worried, Buffy rushed inside the house to find Siggy. She entered just in time to see the other woman fall, her foot going right through the floor.

Buffy was at her side in an instant, assessing Siggy for injuries as she helped pull her foot out. All thoughts about cuts and breaks vanished, however, when she spotted something glinting underneath the broken floorboard.

With a sharp intake of breath, Buffy pulled the crucifix out of its hiding space, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. 

It wasn’t because she had found a cross, though that in itself was shocking. From what she could tell, Christianity wasn’t a thing around here. What set Buffy’s head spinning was the chain the crucifix was attached to; it had a distinct set of markings on it, ones she had only seen once before -- on the crucifix worn by the monk from the Order of Dagon. 

Even as she held the proof in her hand, she told herself that it was impossible, just a crazy coincidence. It was the wrong time and place; the markings weren’t even an exact match. And yet--

Buffy gasped at the crucifix was snatched out of her hand. Her gaze shot up to Siggy, who quickly put it in her pocket.

Buffy’s initial reaction was to protest. When she saw the fear and disapproval in Siggy’s eyes, however, she held back. If there was any meaning to the crucifix at all, she wasn’t going to figure it out now, especially in front of Siggy. Besides, they were currently in the midst of a crisis, one Buffy still didn’t fully understand. 

Satisfied, Siggy motioned for Buffy to follow her. Soon, they were both running out of the farmhouse back down toward the village. Instead of stopping there, though, like Buffy thought they would, they kept on going until they reached the beach. 

That was when Buffy finally realized what was going on. 

There were a dozen ships coming straight at them. By the looks of the men on them, it wasn’t for a social visit. 

At first, Buffy could only stare. She was still reeling from the crucifix; this just took things to a whole new level of surreal. Reality soon came crashing down, however, as Rollo suddenly appeared in front of her, his huge frame blocking everything out of her sight but him. 

“Will you fight?”

It was the same question he always asked her; for the first time, however, Buffy couldn’t bring herself to say yes.

This wasn’t her world, and this wasn’t her fight. These were people, not demons, attacking for reasons she didn’t know. It seemed wrong to use her slayer skills. Though they had grown on her, the people of Kattegat weren’t completely innocent, either. Aslaug’s husband was off on his own little raid, probably doing this exact same thing to some other unsuspecting village. She tried not to judge. This was just their way of life -- but it wasn’t hers.

There was also the issue of changing history. She didn’t know who these people were or why they were attacking. Chances were this wasn’t a pivotal battle in Viking history -- more like an everyday raid she learned about in history class -- but there could be ripple effects. 

Of course, if she changed history that much, there was a chance she wouldn’t be sent back in the first place. Or she just may not exist. 

As she tried to sort through all the implications, Rollo spoke, bringing all her thoughts to a screeching halt.

“We need you. I need you.”

It wasn’t the words that surprised her. It was the way he said them, with a mixture of hope and pleading in his voice -- along with something else. 

Buffy was stunned. She didn’t know how to respond -- to his request or to him.

Taking her silence for refusal, Rollo started to leave. As he moved away, Buffy caught a glimpse of the beach behind him. 

By now, a group of people had gathered there, passing out weapons as they prepared for the attack. There were a few who looked like they knew their way around a battle. Most were old men or kids, though. Either way, there wasn’t nearly enough of them, not if the battle cries across the water were anything to go by. 

As Buffy looked at the people in front of her, terrified and yet ready to defend themselves, she knew in her heart that she couldn’t just stand by and let them get hurt. Before Rollo could leave, she reached out and grabbed his wrist. 

“I fight.”

Rollo’s eyes lit up with a familiar gleam, one he got whenever they were sparring, but Buffy barely saw it. 

Up until then, Siggy had been still as stone, an invisible observer to the conversation. At Rollo’s look, however, the woman visibly flinched. 

Buffy’s heart dropped. She knew that Siggy and Rollo had something going on. The walls in Siggy’s place were hardly soundproof. Because they never acted like a couple, never really sought each other out during the the day, Buffy had assumed it was just a physical thing. In that moment, though, Buffy knew it was much, much more, at least for Siggy. 

Before Buffy could think of a way to reassure Siggy she wasn’t going to break the ultimate girl code, Rollo turned toward the other woman and began speaking in rapid-fire Norse, completely oblivious to her distress as he slipped into battle mode. All Buffy could really make out were the words ‘Aslaug’ and ‘mountain’. Whatever he said, it didn’t make Siggy happy, but she nodded. Then she was gone without so much as a glance at Buffy.

Buffy frowned. She hated to leave things like that. There was nothing she could do, though, so she hurried after Rollo, who was already striding down the beach, barking orders as he went. 

By now, the villagers had formed a defensive line. She could practically feel the nervous energy around them as they braced themselves for the attack; the air practically vibrated with it. It intensified to shock waves a moment later when the ships finally reached the shallows. 

Without a second to lose, Buffy found a sword and took her place at the end of the line, standing next to a kid who couldn’t have been more than 12. Even as she made it her personal mission to keep him safe, the beach was flooded with heavily armed men, the sound of clashing metal and the smell of blood filling the air. One cadre of attackers immediately made a beeline for Buffy and the boy, probably assuming they were weak links. They soon realized their mistake, falling to the ground before they could reach dry sand. She didn’t kill them, though; she couldn’t. Instead, she chose to immobilize or render unconscious. 

Logically, she knew it made no sense. In this time and place, a sword cut could lead to a slow, agonizing death, much worse than a clean strike to the heart. It also meant she had a major handicap, always having to check her force and use less effective blows. Still, she refused to budge from her plan -- even when one attacker scored a particularly nice slice on her leg when she was distracted by two others attacking the boy. 

“Solveig!”

Buffy frowned as she dealt first with the two and then with the guy who had managed to cut her, giving him a slice on his leg to match hers before knocking him out with a blow to the head. Only one person called her that name, and he didn’t sound happy. 

Sure enough, when she turned toward the voice, she saw Rollo, sending furious looks her way as he battled, slicing and dicing the enemy with abandon.

Buffy made a face at him and turned back to the fight -- only to catch sight of another man glaring at her, his eyes never leaving hers as he barked orders to his men. Buffy ignored him, too. She didn’t have time for posturing. Her hands were full enough with three attackers who were currently trying to bum rush her. 

Though she handled them easily enough, she knew she had a real problem on her hands; for as soon as they were down, three more took their place. Then three more. There were just too many of them, and the defensive line was beginning to falter. In fact, to Buffy’s horror, she saw about half a dozen men slip by it altogether on the far side of the beach, the people around them either dead or too distracted to stop them from disappearing down a path that led around to the back of the village at the base of the mountain. 

Buffy was torn. If she left her spot, there was a good chance the boy would be killed, along with the people around him. If the men got to the village, though, they could run around basically unchecked with no one there but women and children. They’d also cut off any escape routes for the villagers. 

Thankfully, Rollo made the decision for her a second later. 

“Fall back!” he bellowed. “Fall back to the marketplace!”

Without wasting a single second, Buffy motioned for everyone around her to head up the beach toward the main path back to the village center, fending off any attackers who tried to stop them. Once she was sure her area was clear, she took off down the length of the beach. 

It wasn’t easy. Arrows and spears were hurled at her as she ran, slowing down her progress as she dodged each projectile, something made much more difficult with all the dead bodies that littered the ground. It took her twice as long as it should have to get down the length of the beach. By the time she reached the path, the men were out of sight. 

Silently cursing under her breath, Buffy raced after them, using their footprints as a guide. Just as she had feared, they went around the village to the back entrance. Instead of going in, however, they all paced back and forth in one spot before veering off to the right, up the mountain.

Frowning, Buffy looked up at the cliff, wondering what they were up to. At first, she saw nothing. Then her eye spotted it; a flash of pink, one that matched the color of Siggy’s dress -- followed by a mass of yellow and black shields moving below them. 

She and Aslaug were escaping up into the mountain with the children, Buffy realized, Rollo’s words suddenly making sense. And the men were chasing them. 

Buffy paled. She didn’t know if this had been the men’s intention all along or if they had just seized an opportunity. Either way, in all of history, the conquerors never treated the conquered very well, especially the leader’s sons. 

Her sword clutched tightly in her hand, Buffy set off at sprint up the mountain, hurdling over rocks and shrubs as quickly as she could. Though there was still some distance between the two groups, it wasn’t going to last long; the second group was moving fast -- too fast. Before Buffy could catch up, she heard the sound of metal hitting metal, followed by a baby crying.

Pumping her arms even harder, Buffy flew up the mountain path, ignoring the burn in her thighs as she navigated the steep trail. She knew she was close, but she still felt a wave of relief when she turned the next corner and saw Siggy and the others in a clearing less than 50 feet away, scared and cornered but otherwise unharmed.

Without breaking her stride, she quickly assessed the situation. Six men had formed a semicircle around Siggy, Aslaug, and the children. They were laughing at Siggy as she lay on the ground, a sword lying next to her just out of reach. The guy closest to her had his non-sword arm raised, ready to belt her one across the face.

“Hey! Hagar the Horrible! Want to try that on someone who hits back?” Buffy shouted.

Because her plan was to draw attention to her and away from Siggy, she didn’t bother trying to talk in words they could understand. She just used good old-fashioned English, and boy, did it feel good. It worked, too; unfortunately a little too well. Somehow, amid the distraction as all eyes turned toward her, Ubbe managed to break from his mother’s grip and rushed toward Siggy. 

The reaction was immediate. The man who had been about to hit Siggy raised his arm -- his other arm. 

Apparently, Siggy got the fist, but Ubbe got the sword. 

As the blade rose high in the air, the metal glinting in the light as it arced downward to cut the little boy down where he stood, something in Buffy snapped. Before she even fully realized what she was doing, she whipped her sword at the man, sending it hurtling end over end straight towards his heart. 

He was dead before he hit the ground. 

Buffy barely saw it, looking in his direction only long enough to see Siggy get to her feet and grab Ubbe. Instead, she focused on the other men, who immediately charged toward her save one, who stayed back to guard Siggy and Aslaug. 

Buffy inwardly smirked. They probably assumed they had her now, being alone and weaponless. She actually saw the surprise in their eyes when she continued to charge at them head on. She could only imagine what they thought when she planted both feet on the ground and jumped, vaulting over them with a front flip, just when they came within a few arms’ lengths. She never got to find out, though. As soon as she landed on the other side, she was running, her sights set on the lone man. No longer caring how much force she used, Buffy delivered a vicious flying side kick to his head, sending him flying through the air and into a tree. Then, because she knew the others would be on top of her at any moment, she dove for the sword that had been lying near Siggy and positioned herself between the men and her friends. 

The men, for their part, finally got a glimmer of what they were up against. With primal yells, they attacked her all at once, trying to surround and overwhelm her.

They didn’t stand a chance. Armed with a sword once again, Buffy tore through the rest of men, her bladework brutally efficient, at the top of her game thanks the sparring time with Rollo. 

She didn’t stop moving until the last man had fallen, fueled by her fury at these men who would kill little Ubbe without the slightest hesitation, at herself, at Olaf, at the entire world, for putting her in this situation in the first place. And yet, once the fight finally ended and her anger was spent, she wasn’t sure if she could ever move again, crushed by the weight of her own guilt.

It was bad enough that she was responsible for the carnage around her. What really made her stomach lurch was the fact that she didn’t feel nearly as bad as she should have, knowing that she did what she had to if she wanted to keep Siggy, Aslaug, and the children safe. 

She was almost grateful when she heard a noise coming up the path, forcing her to focus on something other than the bodies around her. It turned into real relief when she saw that it was Rollo -- until she saw his face and the devastation written all over it. 

She shook her head in denial. “No.” she said, and started to head back to the village. 

Now that he was there, they didn’t need her. She could still help--

Rollo grabbed her wrist as she tried to pass. 

“No. It is over,” he said quietly. 

She understood the words, but she refused to believe it. Easily breaking his hold, she got about ten feet down the path before he stopped her again, this time a little more forcefully, wrapping his arm around her waist and physically pulling her back so she was trapped against him. 

Buffy grunted in annoyance. They both knew he couldn’t hold her. Before she could break free, however, he leaned down and spoke, his voice right in her ear. 

“ _No_. It is done. The fighting is done. Look.”

Releasing her, he pointed to a break in the trees, where she could just make out the village below through the trees. 

To Buffy’s dismay, she saw that he was right. There was no fighting anymore. The village had surrendered; people were tending to the dead, and for the most part, the victorious attackers were leaving them alone. If she went down there now, there would only be more death. 

“They are… good?” she asked, struggling to find the words and she turned back toward him. 

“Yes.”

It was just a single word, but it spoke volumes. He really believed that they would be okay. And yet he also wasn’t any happier about leaving the village to fend for itself than she was. He was going to do it, though, because he had to.

It was too much. Buffy wasn’t meant to live in the land of moral ambiguity. If people needed saving, she saved them, plain and simple. Bad guys were just that, and the good guys definitely didn’t do the same exact thing the bad guys did, just to other people. And above all else, she didn’t kill them.

Except she just did. 

Almost unconsciously, Buffy took a step away from Rollo. Even though she was still woefully under-prepared for the great big world out there, she was more than ready to walk away from this right here. It wasn’t as if she could go to the beach anymore. And sure, it would be without the crucifix, but she was okay with that. If it really was from the Order of Dagon, she wanted its owner, not the cross itself, and she highly doubted there was a secret order of monks in Kattegat. There was nothing there for her, plain and simple. 

As she contemplated leaving, Rollo’s gaze grew intense, as if he somehow knew what she was thinking. He didn’t say a word, though, nor did he try to stop her. He just watched and waited with an inscrutable look on his face. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy saw that Siggy and Aslaug were also watching her, though they were much easier to read. Siggy was staring at Buffy as if she had three heads, while Aslaug had what could only be described as a serene smile on her face, bordering on smug, even as she shielded her children from the violence around them. 

They were polar opposites, to the point where it was almost comical. And yet as Buffy looked at them, she couldn’t help but notice that, despite their different reactions, they shared one thing in common. 

They both looked extremely vulnerable standing there on the mountainside with the children clinging to their skirts, with no food or shelter in sight and an army of men below wanting them dead or maybe even worse. Leaving now would be the same as abandoning them, and she couldn’t bring herself to do that.

With a sigh, she took one last look at the village below, where daily life had resumed; beyond that, she could just make out the ocean -- and the ships that still sat in the harbor. 

Buffy felt a pang of anger at the sight, knowing that her one place of refuge was forever marred -- though in hindsight it was probably for the best. She had used the ocean as a crutch, relying on its unchanging nature as a source of comfort. It wasn’t a useful way of thinking, though; more importantly, she had been wrong.

The ocean endured, but it did change. Sometimes it was through a huge, cataclysmic event that was impossible to miss, but it also happened below the surface, a million little things no one saw.

Like the ocean, she would have to endure -- but she would also never be the same.

+++


	4. Gebo

+++

As Ragnar crossed the vast ocean waters, he had but two thoughts on his mind; his family’s safety and the many ways he would exact retribution on Jarl Borg for their suffering. He did not dwell on Aslaug and the little ones for long, however, other than to pray to the gods for their safekeeping; doing so only brought an unbearable feeling of helplessness. Instead Ragnar focused on Jarl Borg, letting his burning hatred of the man fuel him as he relentlessly pushed his crew across the sea.

It was a simple task really. The Jarl had twice tried to take his family from him; first Rollo and now his wife and children. For that there was no forgiveness. Ragnar would not be satisfied until the man was dead; no amount of political maneuvering would sway him -- particularly since it was King Horik’s meddling that had caused this trouble.

Ragnar had no doubt Jarl Borg’s actions were a result of Horik’s decision to cut him from the raid at the last moment. In doing so, Horik had humiliated him and had gone back on his word. By making Ragnar his messenger, he had provided Jarl Borg a suitable target to vent his anger and embarrassment since he could not take revenge on the king himself.

It was a deliberate move on the king’s part, of that Ragnar had no doubt. Like Jarl Borg, however, he could take no action against Horik. 

He had no such limitations with Jarl Borg; for now, Ragnar would content himself with that.

But he would not forget, either.

+++

Though thoughts of Jarl Borg still festered in his mind like a wound, Ragnar felt his suffering ease when he finally caught sight of Aslaug, Ubbe, and Hvitserk, hiding in a farmhouse high in the mountains above Kattegat. The pain all but vanished when he laid eyes on his newest son, Sigurd. It mattered not that his infant stare up at him with the image of snake in one eye, just as his wife had prophesied, or that his family was dirty and exhausted. They were unharmed, and that was all that mattered to Ragnar.

He was also heartened to see that they were not alone, that others from his hall had managed to escape, as few as they were -- until he spied among them someone he did not know. 

She stood next to Rollo, who spoke to her in low tones, appearing to explain who the returning warriors were.

Ragnar frowned. As a rule, he knew every face in Kattegat. He was even familiar with most of the slaves, though admittedly not all. Even so, this woman was no slave. This one did not take orders from anyone.

No, she may have been a bit of a thing, looking as delicate as an iris in bloom, but her eyes betrayed her as they swept the room. There was iron behind her gaze, iron that Ragnar had no doubt extended down to her backbone. It was similar to the look he had often seen in Lagertha’s eye. The difference was that, in his former wife, he found it attractive. In this stranger, he found it troubling.

His discomfort only grew when she noticed his scrutiny, for instead of looking away, as most would, she returned his gaze, taking his measure just as he took hers.

Ragnar narrowed his eyes. It was time to welcome his guest. He stepped toward the pair, his intentions clear. 

This caught Rollo’s attention, and he immediately straightened, a look of warning in his eyes. He did no more than that, however, unwilling to challenge his brother so openly when their own relationship was not yet entirely healed.

Satisfied that his brother would not interfere, Ragnar turned his full attention to the girl.

“And who is this?”

Though he kept his tone mild, he made no effort to soften his gaze, both to gauge her reaction and let it be known that he was not pleased to have a stranger among them, not at a time when their lives hinged on the loyalty and trust of those around them.

The room fell silent, the joyful reunions coming to an abrupt end as everyone became aware of the situation. Only the girl was noticeably unaffected -- the girl and Aslaug.

“Bótví. Her name is Bótví,” his wife said, stepping forward so that she was next to Ragnar, firmly ignoring the look of triumph Bótví threw at Rollo. “Bótví came to us in need of assistance. She was the one who came to our aid, however, when she saved Ubbe from certain death at the hands of Jarl Borg’s men. I can still see her now, cutting those animals down, just as clearly as I see Sigurd here in my arms.”

Ragnar did not take his wife’s words lightly; nor did he dismiss the meaningful glances she sent his way as she spoke. If he was not mistaken, his clever wife was telling him that she had had a vision of Bótví, much like she had in regards to their son. Even if that were not true, the stranger had saved his family and for that, he owed her much.

Relaxing ever so slightly, Ragnar inclined his head. “Welcome, Bótví. You have my gratitude for caring for my family. I am Ragnar, Earl of Kattegat.”

She nodded politely. “Greetings, Ragnar.”

It was not the way to greet someone in his position. Ragnar let it pass, however. He cared not for such formality; the respect and deference in her voice was enough. What he could not overlook was the way she spoke; slowly and highly accented, her tongue obviously unfamiliar with the most basic of words.

He had already guessed that she was not from Kattegat, but he had not considered the possibility that she would be entirely foreign to these lands, not when she had been so readily embraced by his wife and his brother. 

Before he could begin to make sense of it, however, Rollo cleared his throat.

“Brother, if I may have a word?”

Ragnar fell silent as he considered the request, though in truth it was unnecessary. Between the look on Rollo’s face and Aslaug’s measured words, he knew that whatever his brother had to say, it was not for others to hear.

Upon his nod, the two men headed out of doors. As soon as they were a safe distance from the others, Ragnar looked to his brother.

“Who is she, Rollo, and where does she come from?”

Rollo sighed and paced a few steps before speaking. “I will tell you, though you may not believe it. If I had not witnessed it myself… She appeared on the shore, the morning you left as suddenly as a thunderclap. She was locked in battle with a monstrous beast, the likes of which I have never seen before. Its weapon could have been Mjolnir itself, for I could not move it in the slightest -- yet she hefted it as if it were nothing,” he said. A slight smile played around his mouth at the memory, but it lasted only a moment before he became serious once more. “Ragnar, she is flesh and blood like you and I, and she has a temper I would wish upon no man, but she fights as if she were touched by the gods.”

“And is she the same in bed as she is on the battlefield?” Ragnar asked slyly, as though his desire to know how far his brother’s obvious regard went no further than mere curiosity.

Rollo shrugged. “I would not know.”

Though his brother acted as if it was of little consequence, Ragnar was not fooled. He could see the way Rollo’s shoulders stiffened, the slight downturn to his mouth. 

“Ah, well, it is for the best, yes?” he offered. “A woman like that can be difficult to please -- at least out of the bed. Though perhaps it is different where she is from?”

His meaning was not lost on Rollo. 

“She has not said, but it is plain to see that she comes from quite a distance. She is unfamiliar to our ways,” his brother revealed. To his surprise, this made Rollo throw his arms up in frustration. “Truly, for all that she is skilled in battle, she refuses to strike the killing blow. The only exception was when your family was in danger, and it took her days afterward to make peace with her actions… and with me. Even now, when talk turns to reclaiming Kattegat, she does not take part, finding some excuse to look after the children.”

This should have pleased Ragnar. Rollo had once joined Jarl Borg and betrayed him in an effort to step out of his shadow. Though Ragnar wanted to believe nothing could set him on that path again -- nor would he ever forget that it was Rollo who defended Kattegat and kept his family when he could not -- he also knew that a woman could twist a man’s loyalties, especially if he believed her to be sent by the gods. Ragnar also should have been thankful that Bótví’s ambition did not seem to match her supposed power. And yet he was still ill at ease, for he did not like secrets when they were not his own, and it was clear that this Bótví had many. He did not pursue the matter any further, though, knowing he would gain more from observing Bótví’s actions than anything that could be said here -- and watch her he would. 

Because he did want to betray any of these thoughts to Rollo, Ragnar smiled, as an older brother should.

“If she is half the warrior you say, we need her by our side when we face Jarl Borg,” he said, in a way that made it clear this was not a choice. To further emphasize this point, he changed the subject. “Where is this great weapon you spoke of?”

Rollo grimaced, both at Ragnar’s command and his question. “It is in Siggy’s home, well hidden. There was no time to retrieve it before the attack.”

Though Ragnar was deeply disappointed, he did not show his displeasure. It would do nothing to change matters, and if none could truly wield the hammer except for Bótví, there was no danger in it being used against them. 

Still, it was Ragnar’s duty as brother and earl to issue a warning to Rollo.

“Tread carefully, brother. If any harm comes our people by Bótví’s hand or by her intentions, I will hold you responsible.”

+++

Ragnar needed more warriors. He simply did not have the numbers to move against Jarl Borg. It was not for lack of effort, either. Rollo had done well in his absence, searching far and wide, seeking out every man and woman loyal to Ragnar, rallying them for a battle against Jarl Borg; there simply were not enough to be found.

A rasher man might have attacked despite the lack of men, thinking his overwhelming hatred and thirst for revenge could take the place of iron and muscle. Ragnar, however, knew better. He knew he must be patient and wait for his moment. And so he did. 

That did not mean that the mere thought of Jarl Borg sitting in Ragnar’s halls, amongst Ragnar’s people, did not claw at him.

Ragnar closed his eyes and leaned back, using the coolness of the rock face behind him to tamp down his own anger. When he opened his eyes a few moments later, his mind was significantly calmer, allowing him to take in his surroundings with renewed clarity.

The small outcropping on which he sat had been well chosen, its sweeping landscapes offering a certain peace and tranquility Ragnar could not find on the ground. It also afforded him a perfect view of the farmhouse and the surrounding land; yet it was not so high that he could not be down on the ground fairly easily. Equally to his liking was the fact that he himself was hidden from view, a few large boulders obscuring him from the ground below. 

He was also not the first one to find this spot. 

Ordinarily, it would have been difficult to tell. The rock face had little to disturb, holding scant evidence of past visitors -- unless they left a small pile of pebbles. 

Ragnar ought to have been alarmed -- the threat of discovery was constant. No spy would have left such evidence, however; obvious enough to draw notice, yet carelessly strewn with no discernable pattern. No, it appeared as if someone had sat in this very spot, idly tossing the small stones, and nothing more.

Though he wondered at the identity of the person, Ragnar let the matter go. Instead he rose to his feet, thinking to begin his descent back down to the ground. The sun was beginning to rise, which meant everyone would be waking soon. Though his first few days back had been spent learning what had transpired in his absence, today was a new day and there was much to do. Before he could take a step, however, a movement below caught his notice. 

It was Siggy, dragging behind her a half-asleep Bótví away from the farmhouse into a small clearing where they would be alone. 

Ragnar instinctively sought cover behind the boulders, wishing to observe this encounter unseen, his curiosity more than piqued. 

He had heard of the way Siggy had taken the stranger in, of the bond they had formed, but he himself had observed little interaction between the two. If anything, they were purposefully avoiding one another. Ragnar had thought it was because of Rollo and his unabashed admiration of Bótví. As he watched the two women now, however, he realized he might have been mistaken.

Because of the way they stood, Ragnar could not see Bótví’s face, only Siggy’s; nor could he hear what was being said -- but then, he did not need to. The tension on Siggý’s face spoke for itself, as did the way her eyes nervously darted all around. 

She was frightened; both of being discovered and of Bótví. Her fear became almost palpable a moment later when she pulled something out of her pocket and held it out toward the other woman.

Ragnar leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the object. Unfortunately, from his vantage point, he could only see that it was a chain of sorts; a coil of beads and metal lying in the palm of her hand. Still, there was something about it that looked vaguely familiar to him. Before he could place it, however, Bótví took it and stowed it in her own pocket. Then she threw her arms around Siggy in an embrace. 

It was not entirely well-received by the other woman, at least at first. After a moment, however, Siggy relented and briefly returned the gesture before turning back toward the farmhouse.

Bótví did not immediately follow. Instead she lingered in the clearing, standing as still as stone as she watched Siggy depart. Only when she was certain she was completely alone did she move -- not to examine Siggy’s gift more closely, as Ragnar had hoped, but to turn around and look straight up at him. 

A small smile of amusement danced around her mouth as their gazes met. Then she was gone, swiftly heading back to the farmhouse herself. 

Up until that moment, he had seen nothing extraordinary from the strange woman, despite the tales he had heard, and so her presence had largely faded into the background in the face of his conflict with Jarl Borg. Though he kept a watchful eye on her, he had already decided to deal with her in earnest after he had retaken Kattegat. Now, however, he could see that he had to rethink his earlier stance, for clearly she was not one to be underestimated or ignored. 

With these thoughts whirling in his mind, Ragnar once again made to leave; and again, before he could take a step, he spotted movement on the horizon -- there was a host of warriors on horseback approaching. 

All thoughts of Bótví instantly fled Ragnar’s mind, his focus solely on the intruders. His first thought was that it was Jarl Borg, an ever looming threat. There was no haste to their movements, however, no aggressiveness that would indicate an impending attack; nor were they trying to conceal themselves. 

Then he spotted the rider in front, and Ragnar grinned, laughing to himself at the gods’ sense of humor. 

He would recognize his former wife anywhere. For though he had not seen her for four years, she looked the same; strong and beautiful, like Freyja herself. And behind her…

Ragnar felt his heart stop as he caught sight of him; the one Ragnar had prayed and pleaded with the gods to see once again, whose absence was mourned every day since he and Lagertha had left. His eldest son, Björn. 

Ragnar felt as if he were finally whole once again.

+++

Ragnar felt his body hum with anticipation. Tonight, he and a handful of his finest men would sneak into Kattegat in the dead of night and burn down the winter stores. If all went according to plan, they would carry out the bulk of the mission unseen, save for a trail of destruction they would leave in their wake, showing that the attack came from outside Kattegat and not within.

Ragnar knew this would draw Jarl Borg out of the village. The man was too proud not to make the culprits pay, particularly since there was little chance he had not heard whispers of Ragnar’s return by now. What he would not expect, however, was Ragnar’s and Lagertha’s combined forces and would thus be ill-prepared for a battle of that size. Coupled with the threat of starvation, Jarl Borg would have no reason to stay. 

To be sure, it was not the perfect plan, even if it did succeed. Leaving Kattegat without its winter supply of food would be difficult, but Ragnar knew his people would persevere and endure. He could see it as he walked among the men as they readied for battle.

All thoughts of battle temporarily fled Ragnar’s mind as he came across his son was sparring with Torstein. 

Björn had grown into a fine young man -- strong and skilled in battle, like his parents. Lagertha had done well in raising him. She herself looked to be in fine fighting form, as if time had not touched her at all. That she had come to his aid after all that had happened between them, after Aslaug had unexpectedly arrived in Kattegat heavy with his child, and bringing Björn with her, no less, reunited in their desire to free Kattegat… Ragnar owed her a great debt, and perhaps more.

With a nod of acknowledgement and pride, Ragnar turned toward the rest of his men, though his eye was immediately drawn two figures standing at the outskirts of the clearing.

Rollo and Bótví. 

From the looks of it, they were having a disagreement. It was brief but intense, ending with Bótví stomping away in a fit of anger, one she made no effort to hide; in fact, it was just the opposite. She went out of her way to send Ragnar a scathing look from across the field before disappearing into the treeline at the base of the mountain.

Equally amused as he was offended, Ragnar looked to his brother in askance. Rollo’s mood matched that of Bótví’s, however, and soon he too was storming away -- in the opposite direction toward the farmhouse. Any poor soul who happened to be in his path did not linger there. 

It was like watching a blade strike flint, Ragnar mused. Neither suffered for it, but if they were not careful, they could easily scorch the earth around them. 

And yet Ragnar could not help but be pleased. 

He knew what they had argued about. He himself had forced the issue with his brother, had he not? To be sure, Rollo had done his best to delay his request, but it could not wait any longer, not on the eve before battle, something Ragnar had reminded Rollo of that very morning. 

It was also clear what Bótví’s answer had been. 

While having a sword such as hers would be helpful, in truth, this was the best possible outcome. His demand was more of a test to see how she responded, if what Rollo had said was true, nothing more. Ragnar did not expect her to fight, nor was he entirely sure he wanted her to. 

Apparently, he was not the only one, either. 

“I do not trust her, Ragnar. She should not be here. She is not one of us. There is something… strange about her,” Floki murmured as he came to stand next to Ragnar, his gaze fixed upon the spot where Bótví had disappeared. 

“Like Athelstan?” Ragnar coolly replied, for although he did not wholly disagree, Floki’s words still rankled, for he had heard those words before. 

Floki’s lips curled into a sneer in response, though he said nothing. 

It was no secret that Floki did not like Athelstan, unable to look beyond his Christian ways. It was the one sore spot between Ragnar and his childhood friend -- and perhaps the one thing Floki and Rollo agreed upon. Neither could see what Ragnar saw; the insight Athelstan provided in understanding the enemy, the counsel he gave free of personal agendas and manipulations, the friendship he offered despite their differences -- which is why it had wounded Ragnar so deeply when Athelstan had decided to stay with King Horik in Wessex rather than return to Kattegat to protect his family, _their_ family. It was more devastating than the loss of Athelstan’s sword, which was a blow in itself. Though he had initially been squeamish at the thought of battle, Athelstan was becoming a fine fighter. He was certainly a far cry from the timid monk Ragnar had captured on his very first raid in Northumbria.

A small smile flitted across Ragnar’s face as he remembered that time. It quickly vanished, however; for suddenly he remembered where he had seen the necklace before.

Ignoring Floki’s curious look, Ragnar set off after Bótví. 

He did not know what he expected from this meeting, much less what he would do. Unlike the others, he did not find the mere presence of another Christian in their midst threatening; but then, she was no ordinary woman. Because of that, Ragnar had no choice but to turn his attention to this new twist. It could not wait. 

Thankfully, he knew exactly where she had gone. What he did not know was how swiftly she would get there. 

Because her lead was so slight, he had naturally assumed he would catch her before she reached the outcropping. She scaled the mountainous terrain as nimbly as Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr themselves, however. Ragnar had only gotten halfway to his destination when he heard the faint sound of pebbles hitting a much larger rock.

She had already reached the outcropping. It was impressive. 

Ragnar slowed his pace in response, deciding to favor stealth over speed, unable to resist the opportunity to further test her skills. He did not think he could catch her by surprise, not after all that he had observed; that was not the point of this little exercise. He wanted to see when she became aware of his presence -- and what her reaction would be. 

It was a dangerous game, he knew, one that could end in blood; for as heralded as her talents were, Bótví was no seer. She would not know it was him, only that someone was approaching in a less than open manner. Still, Ragnar pressed on. He wanted to get a better measure of who she was, and he could think of no better way to do so.

And so he crept up the mountain, quietly, steadily, until he finally caught sight of the ledge. There was no movement or sound on her part, save for the steady cadence of rock hitting rock, which never once faltered to indicate anything was amiss. 

Ragnar was not fooled. Ever watchful, he slowly approached the place where he knew she would be. He had made it halfway there, easing himself through a space between two trees, when she finally made her move. 

He heard it before he saw it; a faint whirring sound, followed by a quick _thunk! thunk!_ As the area around him exploded in a shower of splinter and stone, a scowling Bótví stepped out from behind the boulders, her arm pulled back, poised to hurl a pebble at the intruder. When she saw that it was Ragnar before her, she lowered her arm; the small stone in her hand remained, however -- as did the scowl. 

It was a warning; a clear one, but nothing more. 

Ragnar raised his eyebrow in amusement. It dimmed somewhat, however, as he inspected the trees on either side of him. Though she had only thrown pebbles no bigger than his thumb, they still managed to tear into the trees upon impact, embedding themselves deep within the trunk; in dead center no less. 

When he looked back at Bótví, the scowl had changed into a smirk. It held fast as he slowly walked closer to her. 

She was less adept at hiding the wariness in her eyes. 

“Why are you here?” she asked, and again, he could see a flash of both suspicion and defiance in her gaze.

“I came to retrieve what is mine,” he replied. Before she could fully sort through his words, he pointed to her pocket. “The necklace Siggy gave you does not belong to you. It is mine.”

Her eyebrows shot up in shock and disbelief. “Yours?” she exclaimed. 

Now it was Ragnar’s turn to smirk. “Yes, in a manner of speaking. As friend, former master, and Earl, it is my right and my duty to safeguard Athlestan’s possessions until his return.”

She did not know all the words he spoke, but she understood enough. 

“Your… friend is not here?” she asked, to which Ragnar shook his head. 

She may have been unsurpassed as a warrior, but she was terrible at hiding her emotions. Though her stance and her voice were relaxed, as if she were only making idle conversation, her eyes once again revealed everything.

Ragnar wondered at her disappointment. He had already suspected that the necklace had great worth to her and that she would not easily part with it. To know that Athelstan was equally as important…

A thought came to Ragnar then; an insane idea that he dismissed almost as soon as it appeared in his head.

It was far too dangerous. If he made any misstep, disaster would rain upon them all. And yet, if it worked, he would get his revenge -- and perhaps more. Still, it was not a decision to be made lightly, and Ragnar struggled with it. Just then, however, a raven alighted on a boulder behind Bótví. From Ragnar’s vantage point, it almost seemed as if it were resting on her shoulder as it fixed its gaze on Ragnar. 

It was an omen, one that could not be ignored. 

His path clear, Ragnar did not waste time. “I suppose you could keep it until his return, or until we sail out to meet him,” he said indifferently, as if it did not matter. “Unless, of course, we do not succeed tomorrow. Then I do not know when we will see Athelstan again.”

With that, Ragnar turned to leave. It was not necessary to say more, for he spoke the truth. If Jarl Borg retained control over Kattegat, Ragnar would not be able to sail back to Wessex. Likewise, if King Horik were to return, he would either be repelled by Jarl Borg or, worse, turn his allegiances to the usurper. If the latter happened, Athelstan, as Ragnar’s trusted friend and advisor, would most likely be killed as a sign of good faith between the two men. Hers was the burden to weigh the importance of the necklace and its owner against her desire to abstain from battle, as well as the risks and consequences of doing so. Ragnar would not demand anything from her she -- or the gods -- did not want to give. 

He held firm to this even when he passed by the two trees pitted and maimed from her attack, her silence almost deafening.

He was rewarded for his resolve a moment later.

“Wait.” 

A slow smile spread across Ragnar’s face at the sound of her voice. Behind him the raven cawed.

+++

A/N: I will never write from Ragnar’s POV again. The man is too crafty and complex, and I just can’t keep up. This chapter almost killed me. 


End file.
